It did, and he knew it after committing to that move, as evidenced by a curse that sprinkled the board with saliva.
Wanting only an end to this game and rest, even were it in a dank cell, Vilda made her next move. As if accepting there was naught to be done, he did not linger over his own move and, shortly, she said, “Checkmate.”
He eyed her, and she knew he searched for smug triumph, but even had she been reckless enough to provide an excuse for retaliation, she was too tired.
Her enemy dropped back in his chair. “Well done, Lady. Would that this day I proved as proficient at the game of war conducted on a little board, as ever I do when it is warriors of flesh, blood, and steel I move over the great board of my England.” He smiled. “When I have less to occupy my mind, we shall have another match.”
That prospect only added to her misery.
“As you look as if it is a cold cell in which you shall gain your rest rather than a warm, comfortable chamber, your leave is granted and permission given to take your meal abovestairs.” He looked around. “Where is that squire?”
Likely in the kitchen with others whose bellies would not be quieted, Vilda thought as she gripped the chair arms and pushed upright.
“Ere I depart Brampton, allow me to escort the lady abovestairs,” Guy said.
She heard the last of what he spoke, and when her weary mind delivered what came before, suppressed the impulse to send her gaze to his. Of course he was leaving again.
“As you will, Chevalier.” Le Bâtard stood and strode toward the dais.
Guy cupped her elbow. “Come, Lady.”
Wishing his support was greater, she allowed him to set the pace though she longed to run as previously muted voices ceased holding their collective breath and the accents of Normans fell upon the hall as if from a great height.
Determinedly, she kept her head up, even after they reached the stairs and ascended out of sight. But once the upper landing was ahead, her dignity folded when anticipation of a last step up proved imaginary and she lurched forward.
Without hesitation, the chevalier released her elbow and hooked an arm around her waist.
“Forgive me!” she gasped and found his face very near hers. She needed no confirmation he was darkly attractive, but as she looked near upon his strongly defined face, she noted what she had not before—his mouth encircled by short mustache and beard was almost as perfectly formed as one would expect of a lovely woman. Though his lips were lightly chapped, the upper was peaked with arches and only slightly thinner than the lower whose fullness made her stomach toss in a way different from when she suffered the company of Le Bâtard.
“Are you ill?”
She shook her head, and as if to punish her for the lie, pain stabbed behind her eyes. “I am tired, is all. My mind having been much occupied with my defense, I slept little last eve. And then to have my audience with him last so long…”
“You performed well.”
Wishing distance between them but unable to bring herself to pull away, she said, “Performed. Oui, that is what I did.”
That intriguing mouth curved. “It was almost entertaining watching you better him once, and then twice.” Before she could question that, he asked, “Are you steady?”
Realizing neither did he wish her so near, she nodded, and he released her and stepped back.
As she smoothed the tunic gifted her, she acknowledged she was not steady. Thus, when he turned to resume his escort to the chamber at corridor’s end, she attempted to delay him by asking, “Almost entertaining, Sir Guy?”
He came around. “Do not tell me you are unaware of the danger of stealing upon a lion and tugging its tail—and somehow surviving that, yanking it hard?”
She smiled. “I knew it could see me tossed in a cell—and that might yet prove my fate—but as told your king, I have only myself to consider at this time, and I could not bear to give him a single victory over me.”
“Single, Lady? You are his captive.”
“True, but that victory, can it be called that, belongs to the one who pulled me from the water.”
He nodded. “You are right, and that it is no victory to reel in a wounded fish. Still, I hope you do not regret this fisherman hooking you. Had I not, another would have retrieved the drowning rebel and given her to my king since I was not the one who sighted you.”
Knowing she had made rescue of her sound an accusation and it was not entirely unintentional, Vilda said, “I am glad it was you. Though my future is dim, I do not doubt it would be black had another given me into his hands. What I narrowly avoided at my wedding—”
Return of those memories making her head feel heavy, she closed her eyes. And heard the chevalier return to her side.
She expected the support of a hand again, not to be swept into his arms. The moment her feet left the floor, she exclaimed, “Non!” and twisted around to press her hands against his chest.
It was not necessary to push him away. He let her slide down his body and lightly gripped her arms. “I meant you no harm.”
She blinked up at him. “I do not question your intentions. I just…”
Just what? she asked herself. The answer was threefold—she was not so weak she needed the enemy to carry her, she should not feed this attraction whose appetite grew with each kindness shown her, and she had enough memories of him without adding that of being in his arms.
It was good he was departing Brampton. Now if only she were truly pleased. “As told, I am tired, but I am no frail thing. Your steadying hand shall suffice.”
“Apologies, Lady. I did not mean to trespass.” Firming his hold on one arm, he led her down the corridor.
When
